


Folktales and Truth

by SylviaoftheDepths



Series: Ego like savage [4]
Category: Original Work, Pentagon (Korea Band), Stray Kids (Band), The Boyz (Korea Band), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Amnesia, Dieties, Ego, Ego Universe, Egos, Fire, Folklore, Gen, Sacred Trees, Soulmates, Vmin Bingo 2020, light fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25284766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylviaoftheDepths/pseuds/SylviaoftheDepths
Summary: Destiny twists at the behest of ancient magic, wishing for the universe to cease its battle with itself.Seven boys are twisted by the altered fate of ancient magic, for a universe that begins to change without their knowledge after a meeting that grants a wish that brings two souls into one.
Relationships: OT5 - Relationship, OT7 - Relationship, OTP - Relationship
Series: Ego like savage [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749592
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2
Collections: The AO3 Petting Zoo, The Alphabet Challenge, Vmin Bingo Fest 2020





	Folktales and Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [JupiterMelichios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JupiterMelichios/pseuds/JupiterMelichios) in the [PettingZoo](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PettingZoo) collection. 
  * In response to a prompt by [TheRainRogue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRainRogue/pseuds/TheRainRogue) in the [TheAlphabetChallenge](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TheAlphabetChallenge) collection. 



> Hmm~, so~... I don't really know what i did here. I started out great, followed the prompt, followed Kat's and my guidelines for our universe, and then I stayed up last night for absolutely no reason whatsoever and powered through this, so it starts strong and ends strong and is just barely alive in the middle, I think. I don't know, I just felt like I needed to put something out soon and this other breakup fic I'm working on isn't writing itself, so I think I forcefully took charge and wrote this instead? Anyways!
> 
> I haven't mentioned who any of the characters are, so please, try to guess~! I think I made it pretty obvious, within the respective fandoms, and those of you who've read the previous works in the series will be able to guess the unclear ones real easy~! Oh, one of them is an original character, hence the Original Works tag up there, he comes from Kat, you probably won't guess him until he's officially introduced! Ah, and another is clearly not meant to be guessed, but if you guess the other characters correctly and follow the math, you may be able to guess who he is? Maybe? If you do, I'll be mighty surprised! And so will Kat!
> 
> This is just meant to a backstory of the universe in general, so honestly, it's fine if you just read the first part, if you're interested in the universe and don't want to stick through to the end. I'm seriously not sure how it turned out this long with the serious lack of content I was running on the the long hours of the night, but, well. Here we are!
> 
> **Prompt:**  
>  Yeah, so this one's a bit deep and also a bit pretentious, but I'm posting it anyway because I have no shame  
>  **Chapter Text**  
>  "According to the legends of one particular tribe, when the world was first born there were no people, only gods and demons. There was no life anywhere on earth, and that was how the demons liked it. But the gods wanted to create life. And so they set about making plants and animals and birds and fish and lots of other things, and the demons complained but they didn’t try to stop them. And then the gods created man. They shaped little figures out of clay so that they looked like gods or demons, and set them on the earth, and breathed life into them. But although they looked like gods, they were only animals and they fought and killed one another and were unhappy. And when they died they were gone and could never be brought back, and that saddened the gods who loved their creation.
> 
> And so the gods has a conference and they decided that they should give the humans a little piece of immortality. They decided to give them souls, which would be made from the gods’ own souls and would live on after the body had died, and would dwell with the gods in heaven.
> 
> And so they set about forging souls. But when the demons heard what the gods were doing they were furious, and they declared a great war on the gods. And the gods were worried. The war would take a great deal of time, maybe all of time, and they hadn’t made enough souls for all the humans. And so they came together again to discuss it.
> 
> They worried at the problem for some time when finally one of the smaller, less powerful gods struck upon an idea. They should break the souls into pieces and give each human a little piece. But how will they get into heaven with only a part of a soul the other gods asked. And the small god said, let each piece of soul be born again and again, as often as necessary. When it leaves one body let it enter a new unborn soulless body. In this way the pieces have time to find one another. And when they have found one another, then they may enter heaven as one. And so it was decreed and so it has always been and will always be.
> 
> I thought once, not so long ago, just as I’m sure you think. That it’s a nice story. A beautiful story. That the people closest to you, those you love the most, aren’t simply friends and loved ones, but little pieces of you seems so fitting. But the closer I get to death the more I come to realise how true it is. And I understand now what it means. The pieces of my soul aren’t just the people I love. Some of them aren’t people I love at all. They’re the people that made me, shaped me, helped me, taught me. Made me me. The people without whom I cease to be me."
> 
> One person's reflection on the people that make up the other parts of their soul.
> 
> **Prompt:**  
>  [ F ]  
> Possible words;  
> fast, farther, frozen,  
> follow, frenzy, frankfurt,  
> etc.

There is this old tribal folktale.

In the days of old, there was nothing. There were gods, there were devils, there was the world.

And there was nothing.

In the days of old, this was peace. But as is with the days of new, peace is not a time with long life. There had been minor conflict between the gods and the devils, but as there was nothing, there was yet nothing to truly be fought over.

The gods sought to change this. Not in the nature of war, of course, but gods were creatures of creation and the nothingness did not suit them so. Thus, to quiet this spirit of restlessness, the gods created, against the wishes of the devils. So came about the ocean, the land, and the sky and all the creatures who came to live within these domains.

The devils complained, of course, for they could not just take such disobedience in silence. But it was no matter of true unrest, for these creations did not add much to the nothingness. They lived, they died, and this cycle continued on, without prompt or aid. The waters with their fish, the land with its animals, the sky with its birds, they were all but mere distractions, additions of color into the bleak painting of existence.

And thus came again quiet between the two opposing existences, preoccupied with these new creations. The gods played with the earth, raising plants from their fingertips, and the devils played with the gods’ creatures in retribution, causing them to kill each other in games of survival. All was in balance, until the gods played something else into creation.

Humans.

Humans were creatures formed of the clay in the ground, given the shape of the gods and devils and given life to walk about, as the animals of the land. And yet, as with every other creation of the gods, the humans quickly succumbed to the antics of the devils, taking upon death as if nothing more than the animals that accompanied them.

And so the gods converged, aggrieved by this discovery. Creations, so like them, and yet so, so lacking. What could be done?

What could be done, they found, was to grant humans a small piece of immortality. Souls, pinched from their own, just enough for their mortal bodies to handle. Humans would find heart, with souls, and this heart would stay up in Heaven with the gods after their mortal bodies were laid to rest. The ceaseless killing would come to an end and the gods would not have to part with their precious creations after death.

Finally the devils were roused to proper dispute. Creation had come into existence against their will, it was only a matter of course that devils would be given equal reign over life as its creators. But now humans were to be wrenched from their grasp, adored excessively by the gods for a likeness that resembled both extremes.

Incensed, the devils created demons. Worried, the gods created angels.

This, this was cause for war.

The gods fretted. Their creation of souls suitable for humans was yet to be completed and devils were crafty, could ruin everything the gods found precious in humans with little time spared from the first declaration of war. And with the added spirituality of gaining a soul, humans would no longer be able to bear the presence of any gods among them. They could only rely on the angels to watch over their precious humans, shield them from the demons' destructive influence.

Deliberation was intense, in the conference of the gods that followed. Debate tarried long in the timelessness of divine beings before a lesser god suggested the souls be divided, that there would be enough for each human.

No, the gods contested, humans would not find their way back to Heaven with only part of a soul.

No problem, the lesser god responded after a period of thought. The souls would remain on Earth. They would be reborn again and again, as time needed, until their parts gathered and they could once again become whole and find their way back to Heaven.

But by the time this was thought of an agreed upon, the devils had already begun to wreak havoc. Spread amidst the humans yet to be granted spirituality were the destructive whispers of the demons, sent by the devils to grant trivial power to the still foolish humans.

Power with a price. Power with a will.

The humans called them egos.

By the time the gods sent their angels down with the split souls, many humans had already succumbed to the desire for such a destructive power. Many had signed their demise in their own hand, desirous and unknowing.

The gods grieved for their precious creations, even as the further spreading of the egos had been stemmed. Now, every time humans found use for their egos, a little part of them became lost, until eventually, the egos ate up at their humans until the humans could continue on no longer. The damage was done and irreversible.

As the humans grew and died, the original split souls of the gods, fashioned for the humans, created new souls, humans souls, to impart upon their children with each successive birth, and as humankind grew, so did they dwindle with just as much speed, if not faster, as the ability to use egos was passed on, successively killing their users as time went on.

It was a time before ego healers finally came into creation to combat this terrible affliction. Egos capable of healing other egos. Egos with a price so utterly negligible, it cost them close to nothing to heal, nothing to help the other humans left so bereft after continuous use of their treacherous powers.

And so the war between the gods and devils started with humans and continued as humans continued to live.

~

It came to be that parts of one of the original split souls had found homes within two ego users, destined to be separated. One, fated to angelhood with every use of their ego, the other, doomed to demonhood with each successive use. It was a circumstance so unusual, it caught the eyes of the gods and devils alike, as no one thing had ever before.

Oh dear, the gods worried. Should the humans truly be changed, the full soul would never be complete, never find its way back to Heaven.

 _Oh dear_ , they thought. _They should make sure the demon child never fully turned before their time came._

 _Ah,_ the devils cheered. Here was a chance to drag an innocent soul down to Hell.

And so began this new war, to ensure the parts of these souls didn’t separate, each for a different reason entirely.

And so began the spectatorship of divine beings, when their humans foiled their plans, unaware and on dangerously human whim.

~

The day the secret war came to a secret head, it is children who bring relief to centuries worth of conflict.

There is an ancient weeping willow tree that rests beside a hospital, long protecting its residents with an old sort of magic that draws strength from its roots and spreads through the air with every gentle shake of its long branches, reaching towards the ailing souls of the ground. This willow is home to those who wish to escape, whether the gentle angels watching over the weary residents, the residents themselves, or the visitors of said residents. It comforts the weak and weeps with the lost. Magic breathes with the safe haven it is, and even demons avoid laying a deathly hand upon such an ancient protector, choosing instead to respect its age and nature,

Within the walls of the hospital, a black-haired boy, about seven years of age, wanders into the outdoor playground after his checkup, seeking company after his parents have left him to go talk to the doctor. He doesn’t know, but his father is sobbing within the walls of the doctor’s office, the doctor himself staring sympathetically down at his hardwood desk through the black bangs partially obscuring his vision, wondering if such a fate really must befall one so young as this lovely young seven year old child with chubby cheeks and an angelic smile, as his mother clutches tightly at his father’s shirt as he is bent over into his own hands clutching desperately at his black hair, with no regards to its possible ripping or not, tears swimming in her eyes that she refuses to let fall out of sheer pride that springs from nowhere and she convinces herself, with an aborted toss of her pretty black hair over her shoulder, is for her husband, who is clearly having a harder time than her, she should hold strong for him.

 _Go play_ , they’d told their son with a smile. _Have fun for as long as you can_ , they didn’t say, watching him pounce excitedly forward and away before turning pensively to step past the doctor’s threshold.

They’ve already suspected the result of the checkup, long before it was confirmed.

The chubby-cheeked seven-year-old with the angelic smile ends up wandering to another black-haired lady who reminds him of his own mother. She warbles down at him sweetly when she sees him flash his signature baby smile in her direction and helps him clamber onto the bench beside where she is sitting. An interest is taken in the black-haired twins in her lap, one girl, who is sleeping, and one boy, who blinks curiously up at him, that lights up his entire countenance.

“They’re so small!” The chubby-cheeked seven year old exclaims excitedly, looking up at the lady. He’s a severely sheltered child and has never seen anyone look smaller than he is, didn’t even know it was possible for people to come in their size. It’s a huge discovery, to this little boy, and his pearl eyes get wider the longer he stares at them, the sister sleeping so sweetly and the brother starting to smile, open-mouthed with baby teeth, at him.

“They are,” the mother agrees. “They’re about a year old, now. Very much little babies. How old are you, sweetie?”

“Seven!” The chubby-cheeked boy says. He thrusts seven short fingers in the direction of her face and delights when the lady takes them into her hands and plays with them.

“So big!” She coos. The twin boy copies this sound, as best he can, and the chubby-cheeked boy squeals in concert with the mother. The sounds attract the attention of three other black-haired boys who’d been playing together in the grass a little ways off. They’re also smaller than the seven-year-old, the oldest four and the other two two. They’ve just met today, at the hospital for nothing as serious as the seven-year-old boy and the more outgoing of the two year olds had bounded up to the one his size, who had played at angry but was easily convinced to bound up to the tall one with him at the assault of his unwavering grin. The four-year-old had shied away from them at first, shy and inexperienced with younger children or people in general who didn’t tease him for his unnatural height for his age, but the surprising dynamic of the bright energy of one of the two year olds and reluctance of the other, which faded easily for whatever the bright kid seemed to have planned, intrigued the boy enough to let go of his mother’s leg, at which point she’d shoved him in their direction with a, _“Have fun!”_ , and walked away before he could argue.

They’ve been playing happily in the grass together since then.

The seven-year-old child delights greatly at the sight of these other children. He’s been mostly at home his entire life, what with his parents’ fear that prolonged exposure outside, somewhere out of their immediate reach, would result in an early fatality, and only really sees other children during his increasingly frequent visits to the hospital. This is his first time with children younger than him.

“Honey,” the twins’ black-haired father calls to his wife, exiting from the hospital’s side entrance, voice warm and growing warmer at the sight of all the children. “They want us to check our daughter as well. Let’s wake her up now.”

The mother looks from her husband, down to her twins, up to the boys, who look quite unwilling to part with them. No one but the stray unseen angels, fondly watching over the children in the outdoor playground is aware that this is the completion of the five parts of one original soul, miraculous meeting of early age, when one part of five is liable to pass them by in this incarnation at any given second.

Because all is right with the world, the mother leaves her baby boy in the seven-year-old’s cradling arms with a warm smile and gentle instructions on how to hold him and soothe him if he startles.

 _These children’s parents must be around, watching them,_ she soothes herself with a quick confirmatory glance around, _t_ _hey will take charge if they see things going south._

The boys continue to quietly stare, amazed, at the little one year old, who only brightens, slowly, at their rapt attention, giving them a shy, but happy smile, not unlike the four-year-old’s own.

“Three.” The more outgoing of the two year olds decides, finality coloring his eager tone, as if he doesn’t consider anyone would doubt this decision of his. It takes one look at the pretty tree in question, the boy and his squirrel cheeks, and the pretty baby in their protection, before they collectively decide that yes, they belong in the magical nest of all-encompassing hanging leaves of that tree so near to their playground.

The shuffle to the tree is long, in which the squirrel-cheeked boy wants to hold the baby and the chubby-cheeked angel has enough sense to refuse, leaving the two-year-old to pout, until the other two year old finally gives up and grabs his hand, pulling him forward as he breaks out in a dead sprint as fast as his two-year-old little body can take him as he drags a surprised two-year-old body behind him. The shy four-year-old catches on to his agenda in a matter of seconds and, in an effort to raise their squirrely little friend back to his original cheer, he puts aside his usual hesitance to run ahead of them, pulling faces at the two-year-old until he squeals delightedly at the clear challenge, forgetting all about his rejection and dashing forward with a burst of speed that has him now pulling his slower counterpart via their interlocked hands.

The seven year old boy finds himself smiling at the sight as he follows behind, slightly picking up his pace. He doesn’t know why, but this is the happiest he’s felt in his life. The supervising angels respectfully leave the boys in the supervision of the ancient willow.

Passing through the first ring of leaves of the willow tree is like entering another world. The boys quieten in awe as they pass into the abode of the willow, wind whispering welcome through the swaying branches and grass beckoning sweetly from under their feet.

 _This place feels special_ , they think. _This place feels like magic._

The eldest settles responsibly with the baby at the foot of the tree and, for a time, the tall child sits with them there, playing with the baby and exchanging delighted glances with the older child as the baby laughs and coos and plays back. The squirrel-cheeked boy drags the pouty boy away, however, and both the two-year-olds spend this time running after one another, although it is mostly the more somber of the two threatening the terrible fate of a baby captor if he catches the other and the bright child shrieking in joy as he runs away. Eventually the shy child is coaxed to join as well, and then both two year olds find great excitement in running away from him and his long legs. The tall child starts to sport a rare blush on his cheeks as he indulges them at a slower, more dramatic pace. This is fun. This is nothing like when the mean kids he’s usually with run away from him. This makes him happy. He likes being included in on the laughter like this, where no one gets hurt.

Watching them play makes the sweet, chubby-cheeked boy want to join as well, a sweet yearning that swells in his chest, at having friends like these when he usually only has his parents. But he’s acutely aware of the baby with the pretty smile in his arms, who he is loath to leave, and his mother’s words.

_You can’t play those big boy games, honey. It’s bad for your heart. You can’t handle it. Don’t do it, for Mommy, okay?_

He can’t do it. For his Mommy.

The baby giggles. He smiles down at it. For now, he can’t do it for the baby either. And he’s very fine with that, tickling the baby’s sides so he erupts in laughter.

The noise draws the other three boys in, plopping down tiredly in a circle around them. Their little energetic leader has managed to wear himself out as well, although not for long, and the rest of the time is spent talking in a broken attempt at conversation amongst themselves and indulging the child in their midst. Each child finds themselves basking in this atmosphere, so unfamiliar and yet so comfortable to them. It is like nothing they have ever experienced before and it is home, in the strangest, most magical sense.

It’s surprisingly the more somber of the two year olds who recovers his energy first, scrambling over the trunk of the tree so he can lay upon its bark much like the racoon he is starting to resemble. For such an ancient tree, it’s trunk spreads separated and low, twisting prettily upwards as it goes on, and it’s easy for him to scramble upon its lower trunks, lying above the ground at a perfect height for him to work his strong little two-year-old arms around. His fellow two-year-old pouts immediately and tries to join him, but in seconds proves he’s much too hasty to pull it off and has his tall friend gently pulling him away.

He begins to wail dramatically at the terrible injustice of it all as the racoon child smirks at him from his perch on the low trunk, but one chiding sound from their baby has both of them quieting for him, has him smiling in reward at them. The seven and four year olds gape as the two year olds coo and the one year old remains oblivious to his own power.

The air sparkles around them the longer they spend together in this magical haven of theirs, collecting in their bright and soft smiles, their excited and childish eyes, their every gesture, fond and communicative together.

The spell is only broken much later, when a familiar voice calls from outside their grove, inquisitive voice sweet.

It’s their baby’s mother.

“Here!” The seven-year-old calls with all his strength, hoping the willow tree will carry his voice outside its enclosure. “We’re coming out!”

All at once, the squirrel-cheeked boy is turning his round eyes to the seven year old, wide and glistening in want. It’s clear what he wants.

The baby. He wants the chance to hold the baby he was deprived of before.

Logically, the seven-year-old child knows this is probably not the best idea. But the more he thinks of letting his arms fall from the child, the more aware he is of just how tired he is, even though he hasn’t expended half the effort than even their four-year-old friend has. The baby pats a tiny hand in reassurance on him, at the might of his seven year old distress.

“She?” Their squirrel beams in triumph. “I can!”

A look to the side at their four-year-old only yields a shrug in defeat and above at fellow two-year-old a scoff with all his superior two year old might, so with a hesitant sigh, the seven-year-old relinquishes their baby over to a boy only one year his senior. He proves to be surprisingly careful, under the gaze of the eldest in the enclosure, and the seven year old only wishes that his friends will be safe outside the reach of the willow tree.

With the absence of their loudest friend, the faint sound of water lapping catches in the four year old’s large ears, and he perks up with an interested expression on his face, temporarily leaving the group to go and find out where the sound is coming from. When the chubby-cheeked seven-year-old turns to the two-year-old in question, he only shrugs. He looks interested, the seven-year-old thinks, but he’s also trying not to show it. The seven-year-old isn’t quite sure just why he feels the need to do this, but it’s incredibly cute, and if he had the energy, he would reach over to pat his reluctant baby’s head, even if he’d have to stand on his tippy toes for it. As it is, he’s just smiling dopily at his younger friend, who huffs a tiny, two year old huff and turns around, failing to hide his happy smile.

“Guys!” Their third calls out in an elated voice from somewhere behind them, far enough to seem to have somehow made it outside the willow tree. The little racoon whips his head around at the eldest and pouts, gaze imploring in a way he doesn’t quite realize, and the seven year old helps him down with an easy smile, denying to join him in the hand offered in his direction, even as the boy is visibly restraining himself from running off to join their other friend. He’s taking off speedily on his tiny, two year old legs as the next call comes. “Come here!”

By the time the small child bursts out of the enclosure, he too can hear the gentle sounds of water lapping against the ground. He brushes aside the hanging branches as he finally runs past the last of them, not so far from where they had been resting, and barrels straight into his older friend, who topples into the lake with an awkward flail of his limbs, too long for the full control of one so young. For three, five, six, _eight_ whole seconds, the small boy panics until the four-year-old finally resurfaces, spluttering and grinning all at once. Both their smiles towards one another are sheepish, all for different reasons.

“It’s okay.” The older child says when the younger one sighs in relief and he realizes he was worried. “I wouldn’t have drowned anyway.”

His sheepish grin grows when he sees the young child frown sheepishly. Even at two, he knows that disappearing into water like that is bad, even if he’s not quite sure what drowning means. It was scary. He’s a big boy, so he didn’t cry, but if their other friends were here, they would have definitely cried.

“Here,” the older boy says, “let me show you.”

And then he disappears.

It’s different than before. He doesn’t plunge into the water, doesn’t look like he’s panicking, looks all for the world like nothing is wrong when in the next second, he’s gone.

In his place, a frog jumps onto the little boy’s outstretched hand.

His jaw drops.

Under the cover of the willow tree, the chubby-cheeked angel of a boy is entranced by the sight of a spectacular green butterfly, fluttering in the depths of the willow trees trunks. He’s never seen a real life butterfly before, and this one looks so much prettier than the others do on TV. The sight of it gives him the strength to finally climb over the low-rise trunk, as his two-year-old friend had done before him, but the scrape of his limbs over the bark startles the pretty butterfly up, higher, away from its possible predator. The boy pouts his chubby cheeks and sets his pink lips into a determined frown. His Mommy said he couldn’t handle it, but he’s climbed over this trunk just fine! He can handle a little more, just until he can get a good look at the pretty, pretty butterfly of the willow tree up close.

And so he climbs and climbs and climbs.

It’s only when he finds his feet dangling with no support does he look down and find how high he is off the ground. All of a sudden, exhaustion hits him like a sledgehammer, has him clutching weekly at the branch he’s wrapped around, has his gasping with terrified breaths as sweat drips into his eyes and tears spring onto his shaky arms in turn.

His chest _burns_. Fire spreads through his veins, spearing through him, through him, through him, leaving holes in places there shouldn’t be, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

He whimpers.

“Hi.” A new voice pierces through his pain, after a second. He looks down. There’s a new boy, black-haired and around his age, smiling up at him. “What are you doing up there?”

“I followed a butterfly.” He sniffs in response. Talking to someone else like this distracts him from the pain. He wants this new boy to stay and take his pain away. But he can’t take the pain away and his Mommy is going to find him like this, stuck up in a tree, even when Mommy told him not to do big boy things. A desperate wail breaks out of his chest. “My mommy says I can’t do big boy things. She says my heart can’t handle it. I just wanted to do a big boy thing! But now I can’t come down! My chest hurts!”

“Hey there.” The new boy soothes gently. “Don’t cry. I can help you.”

He tampers down his loud wailing as best he can, sniffling wretchedly and pouts instead. “You can?” It’s difficult to tamp down the pain. The pressure has him blinking back tears, determined not to cry again.

“I can.” The new boy confirms. Smiles. It makes him feel the slightest bit better.

~

The day the secret war came to a secret head, it is children who bring relief to centuries worth of conflict. The gods and devils can only watch from afar as destiny is set into motion, their angels and demons closely following behind each their representatives to be witness to the side who claims first triumph.

A young, Hell-bound boy from a family of healers in hiding travels, stalked by hordes of invisible demons, along the plusher stalks of grass well-fed by an ancient weeping willow to the source of their beauty, a magical willow tree beside a hospital.

At the opposite end of the hospital, a small, nine-year-old boy politely greets everyone he walks past with a smile mirroring that of angels’, the very angels he embodies trailing behind him, radiating pleasant approval and gentle encouragement for the war he is about to face.

In the presence of five soulmates, the ancient weeping willow tree makes one final sacrifice for the good of the universe. An extra strong flap of a magical butterfly’s green wings, the heady magic of excitement saturating the veins of those caught in the willow’s thrall, a misplaced foot, a rush of air, and a scream.

~

The two two-year-olds watch as their friend drops from the tree in front of a boy they’ve never seen before, winds parting the hanging branches of their willow tree just so to grant them sight of this boy falling to his knees before their fallen friend, not rising from the ground.

One boy, still beside the twin’s mother after handing her son to her, freezes completely, uncomprehending. It’s a minute before the twins’ mother notices, bending down concernedly and asking what’s wrong.

The other, at the other end of the tree, feels an awed yell die acid in his throat, souring as it pummels downward instead, spreading fire _hot_ through his veins. He has the last presence of mind to register his four year older friend hopping from his hand back into the lake before the fire overtakes him and he loses control.

The mother of the one-year-old only has a second to look up from the little two-year-old child shivering still in front of her before the weeping willow, long resting in its staple place beside their precious home for injured souls, bursts into flame. She yanks her son and the two-year-old boy away and screams, for the boy’s parents, for her own husband, for security, for everyone to get away.

In the embrace of the flames, four boys sit untouched, one who will not emerge from the lake that is his home, the form that protects him, utterly terrified, a phantom pain spreading through him even as he is untouched, the other unseeing, unfeeling, unhearing if not for the fire in his veins, his lungs, the air he breathes, consuming everything, and two, making a wish that foils the plans of the divine, unaware and dangerously human.

At the behest of old magic, a mediator is created, between Heaven and Hell and Earth, the instigators and the world that reaps benefits and detriments at the whims of the divine, and two souls connect seven boys under a weeping willow tree.

~

A boy with red hair grows, suspicious of everyone and himself the most, missing something important, too much of something else, constantly, constantly, constantly running through his veins, hot, eager, waiting, waiting, waiting to burst out of control.

~

A vibrant boy with orange hair learns to give as much as he hordes, trinkets for food, more for healing. He smiles, smiles, smiles in bountiful measure, because somewhere, there is the warm memory of someone who is waiting for his smile, his soul having chosen to heal in wait for the rest.

~

A boy with yellow hair lives amidst flashes of white and blue light, smiles for the camera, takes his twin sister’s hand, poses, is bright and young and talented and everything everyone wants to see from him.

His sister tells him he wants to see something, but he doesn’t know what it is.

~

A tall boy with green hair finds home again- again, he doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why he prefers a home with no hearth, but a camp with a bonfire, doesn’t know why his ego calls to frogs as it does, his lifeline, his bestfriends, his soul, soul, soul in waiting, waiting for the terrible thing that holds him back to disappear.

~

A blue-haired boy is taken after a heart attack, memoryless, and with a new, small family of three. He works hard, to please, finds power running through his veins that he doesn’t know what to do with, so he uses it for the nice people who saved him.

He thinks and works and waits for a memory he does not remember.

~

A purple-haired boy is kept safe in the clutches of his family, running, hiding, fighting. He wishes and he fights and he learns, learns, learns, until there is no more to learn, no more to wish, nothing more than something to be reclaimed, a heart that is not his, a soul that is with his.

~

A black-haired boy of nine years walks away unharmed, rushed away from the fateful encounter of the two ends of the universe by well-meaning souls, protecting him from a fire that was not supposed to happen. He follows life to a boy with colored hair and wonders why his is not colored blue, wonders why his heart feels broken and mended with parts that do not belong to him, wonders why he can feel the ghost of something pressing down on his back constantly as he smiles past the weight, calling, calling, calling for something to fix him.

He doesn’t even know how he’s been broken.

~

There is this old tribal folktale. 

It is true. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if it got a little boring in the middle and just confusing throughout, with all the characters and names I didn't say! I totally understand if you skipped parts or you haven't seen this note at all because you've clicked out of the story! To be honest, I'm not exactly sure how I like how this one turned out, aside from the actual folktale parts of it, so~... Yup, if you didn't like it, I'd understand!
> 
> Anyways, I'd like to share a little about myself~, given that this is a multi fandom work! Coming back after writing all this, it turns out long, so you're not obligated to stick around till the end! My biases are:  
> 1\. BTS- V (Ult.): BTS is the first group I ever got into (Go figure!) and to this day, they remain my ultimate bias group, the loves of my life, the ones who've claimed my heart and never let go. BTS puts me at ease in a way little else does and I really have no words for how much I absolutely, utterly adore Kim Taehyung.  
> 2\. Stray Kids- Changbin: This was surprising, actually. I usually make a conscious effort to choose biases, you know? I say, "Oh, look at this cutie!" and some deliberation is spent and if I go down that rabbit hole (I usually do), then I'm there and that's that. But with Changbin, I wasn't even looking and I already fell in deep? Like, this cutie is one of the few rappers who are my bias, the way he raps really sets my heart on fire.  
> 3\. The Boyz- Sunwoo: Sunwoo was... I don't know what he was? I was actually looking at Juhaknyeon, when I was trying to choose a bias, but then Sunwoo kept on popping up and shaking my heart and then. Well. This talented boy now claims the title of my bias in The Boyz and doesn't seem very likely to give it up to my bias wreckers, Haknyeon and Changmin off stage (that's a first for me too), and Canada-line onstage.  
> 4\. Pentagon- All of them!: Pentagon was a first in me stanning all of them. Like before, I had two groups which I stanned as a whole, but I didn't have an individual bias in them. At least, not yet. There are hopefuls, as there have been for the past few years. I'm still waiting to slide down the hopefuls' rabbit holes, but if I don't, that's okay too, a bias isn't the only reason you stan a group! Anyways, Pentagon is the first group where I had a plan to stan baby Yuto, but then baby Wooseok crept up on me and then there was baby Jinho and baby Kino and rockstar Shinwon, like. Something from every one of them just kept calling out to me and eventually, I just gave up and decided to stan all the members in a group for the first time.
> 
> Wow, that was long. I need to warn y'all who've yet to read this, lol.


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